


Drunken Ficlet: Once

by greywash



Series: Drunken!ficlets [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-04
Updated: 2012-05-04
Packaged: 2017-11-04 19:15:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/397265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greywash/pseuds/greywash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Drunken!ficlet, archived from Tumblr. Unbeta'ed and un-Britpicked, as always.</em>
</p>
<p><strong>Anonymous requested</strong>: Anderson/Donovan; why she was on her knees that night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drunken Ficlet: Once

"Once," Sally tells him, "once, and once only."

"Once," he agrees, nodding, and she twists her mouth up, a little, and then takes two last long gulps of her lager, and says, "This is rather an abuse of our friendship, you know."

"If she would, I wouldn't ask you," he tells her, and then repeats, " _Please_. If she would, I wouldn't ask you."

It's mostly honest, he thinks; it may not be in a week or a month, but it's still mostly honest, tonight. It leaves things out, though. He doesn't tell her, _And you're beautiful_ , or, _And you trust me_ , or, _And you are glorious and unapologetic when you are angry_. He doesn't tell her, _You are what I thought I didn't want but you might be what I need_ , or,  _You have never, not once, made me wonder if I am less than I am_. Instead, he tells her, "If she would, I wouldn't ask you," and he tells himself that tonight, at least, it's the truth.

Sally is his friend, good and honest, bad-tempered, never a morning person, always too young, and she looks interested and mischievous and a little embarrassed, and she says, "All right, then, but—just—just the once," and smiles at him.

She _smiles_ at him, then, and later, she rubs at his back and his sides when he's on his hands and knees, whispering, "Shh, shh," as she twists her fingers deep inside him; murmuring, "it's all right, you're fine," as she kneels up behind him, pushing into him, slow slow slow; panting out, "I've got you, I've got you," as he groans and trembles all around her-not-her, not warm like her, not soft like her, but her because she guides it, drives it, because she gives him what he fears wants _needs_ , what Angela tells him he can't have.

"Sally," he whispers, head dropped down, low and heavy, pooled inside with heavy, overwhelming tidal waves of blood, and she bends down, curving around him, kissing at the top of his spine, and he shudders through it, gasping, as she rocks inside him, electricity still skittering over the impossible wholeness of all of his skin. He is grateful, he thinks, but not grateful enough. He is not ever, ever going to be able to be grateful enough.

("Once," Sally had told him, "once, and once only."

"Once," he had agreed, nodding, and then after, he licked at her mouth, her throat, her collarbones and her breasts, at the quaking-deep ocean at the heart of her thighs, and set to work changing her mind.)


End file.
